Love. Politics. War.
Amidst
mounting tensions between the British crown and the American colonists of
Boston, Annalisa Howlett struggles with her identity and purpose as a woman.
Rather than concern herself with proper womanly duties, like learning to dance
a minuet or chasing after the eligible and charming Jack Perkins, Annalisa
prefers the company of her brother, George, and her beloved musket, Bixby. She
intends to join the rebellion, but as complications in her personal life
intensify, and the colonies inch closer to war with England, everything
Annalisa thought about her world and womanhood are transformed forever.
Join
Annalisa on her journey to discover what it truly means to be a woman in the
18th century, all set against the backdrop of some of the most pivotal moments
in American history.
Trigger
Warnings:
Violence
and battle scenes, sexual assault, mild sexual content, and profanity.
Buy
Links:
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EXCERPT
The following night, Jack sat in Aunt
Catherine’s parlor on Tory Row in Cambridge. Oliver sat silently sipping his
brandy, but Father’s round face glowed redder than a boiled beet as he stood by
the fireplace.
“Three-hundred-forty-two crates of tea
into the harbor. The Gazette is
calling it ‘the late transaction in Boston’.”
News of the ransack had spread like
smallpox. Father paced before the hearth and puffed his pipe, while Aunt
Catherine and Oliver looked on, their faces twisted with grievous doubt.
Jack stood tall. “I hear it was organized,
sir. A peaceful protest.”
“Peaceful or not, ’twas an act of treason.
I hardly agree with the Tea Act, or the control Parliament and the East India
Company have imparted on tea. But I daresay, we may end up paying the duty
anyhow. The ruffians, those Sons of Liberty.”
“But sir, it was said not a single item
else on board those ships was so much as touched.”
“How could you know such information?”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Were you there? Did you partake in this traitorous
event?”
Jack fisted his hands under the scrutiny.
“I was not.”
“You were,” Oliver jeered. “I found a
hatchet in your trunk last night, covered in soot. And you still bear the
remnant of lampblack under your fingernails. Are you entirely determined to
sully our family name at all cost?”
Jack glanced at his hands. He’d taken
great care to clip and clean his nails when he returned from the raid, but the
soot was embedded.
Father’s nostrils flared and he grabbed
Jack’s hands. “You didn’t.”
“No. Of course not.” Jack pulled free and
crossed his arms. “Ollie, you dare accuse me of treason?”
“Admit your treachery, you rebellious
lout. You humiliated our family enough while we were in France.”
“You lie.”
“Ollie, for shame.” Aunt Catherine
frowned.
Father set down his pipe. “Jack, is this
true?”
Oliver faced Father. “Sir, Jack made no
attempt to conceal his connection with the rebels. He sought any Frenchman at
Versailles who would hear his plights for freedom in the colonies. And this was
all in the presence of Lord General Cornwallis. I am sure the gentleman
overheard the nature of his treasonous tongue.”
Father’s forehead vein bulged. “Jack, I
know where your principles lie, but to engage in such topics of discussion at a
ball?”
“No, sir, he lies.” Jack ground his teeth.
“Ollie, that account is false. I spoke with one gentleman by the name of Beauregard, who sought me out. The exchange was brief and
cordial. That was exactly how the intercourse went, and your rotten Tory self
knows it.”
“Enough.” Father slammed his fist against
the fireplace mantel. A small reverberating wave rattled the clock and wavered
the candle flames. Jack and Oliver stood at attention. “Tory, Patriot. These
are mere words. Remember, you are brothers above these.” He regarded Jack, his
face no longer red with anger. “I want to believe you. And Ollie, I’ll be
damned if you slander your brother with indecency. I’m no Tory. You both know
that. But neither am I radical. Jack, you must look to gentlemanly ways of
dissent. I’ll not have one son gallivanting about with the Sons of Liberty
while the other accuses his own brother of treason.”
Lindsey S. Fera
A born and bred New Englander, Lindsey hails from the North Shore
of Boston. A member of the Topsfield Historical Society and the Historical
Novel Society, she forged her love for writing with her intrigue for colonial
America by writing her debut novel, Muskets and Minuets. When she's not
attending historical reenactments or spouting off facts about Boston, she's
nursing patients back to health in the ICU.
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